


What Else Is A Puppet Good For

by Asreoniplier (AsreonInfusion)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, jacksepticeye
Genre: Blood and Torture, Bloodplay, Gender-neutral Reader, Guro, Knifeplay, Knives, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Manipulation, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 04:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19265977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsreonInfusion/pseuds/Asreoniplier
Summary: It's about time I started up posting the Anti minifics as well. A collection of various Antisepticeye/Reader fics that I've written, but aren't long enough for me to bother posting as their own separate stories. Each chapter is a stand-alone oneshot, and the reader is gender neutral/no pronouns mentioned in all of these unless otherwise specified.Ch.1: Good puppets get rewarded with a knife and puppet strings.Ch.2: Anti is in a Mood, and you happen to be the nearest pretty little puppet for him to use.Ch.3: A minific inspired by that time Anti wore eyeliner for a thumbnail and everyone got real thirsty over it.Ch.4: Anti corrupts the reader and makes them do something they regret.Ch.5: You’ve been spending too much time around Dark, and not paying enough attention to Anti. He doesn’t appreciate that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: knife, blood, guro, not explicit but gets reeeeal suggestive at the end.

“Such a good, loyal little puppet,” Anti coos.

There’s something inherently wrong about hearing him speak like that. Aside from just the glitching edge to his voice; it’s like a children’s lullaby in a horror game, slowed down and distorted, until something that should have been used to soothe and reassure becomes the source of horror itself.

Anti’s anger is terrifying, but his praise – desperately sought as it may be – is unsettling in a way all its own.

“Good puppets get rewarded.” He leans in as he says it, voice low, his breath ghosting against your ear and making you shiver.

You don’t dare move. Anti’s knife presses against your stomach, just the flat of the blade, and then he slowly runs it up the length of your body. It reaches your throat, and you can feel the cold metal against your skin. 

He twists the knife until the terrifyingly sharp edge is threatening to bite into your flesh.

It’s a reward, he says. Which means he’s not going to kill you. Probably. Still has your knees feeling weak with fear.

He drags the blade over your throat, tearing through it like tissue paper, and you choke back a gasp. The skin stings as it splits beneath his knife. Blood wells up and trickles down your neck.

“A-Anti,” you whimper.

It’s not deep; not enough to be dangerous, at least. But enough for him to sink his nails into, and you jerk as you feel his static raw against the already torn flesh.

You’ve seen this before. You know this. His power worms beneath your skin, threading through your veins, giving him control – puppet strings, his puppet strings, embedding into muscle and sinew. But it doesn’t feel… bad.

It  _can_. Oh, he can make it agony. You’ve heard the screams of the puppets he takes by force, the ones who fight him, wrapping his strings around them so tight it cuts them to pieces. This is different.

The static feels like heat, the knife wound pulsing.

He trails the knife lower, carves another deep line into your chest. More static, more strings. He cackles, voice glitching, as you squirm against him.

“Pretty like a knife, ain’t ye?” Anti purrs.

The next wound is pierced into your shoulder, and you cry out. It should be pain. It should hurt. But your head is full of white noise, and your nerves are tangled up with Anti’s strings, and he stabs you and it feels  _good_.

“Ahh…”

His piercing green eyes are so sadistic, so amused. “Good puppets  _like_  bein’ carved up by their Master,” he says. There’s something mocking in the statement, but you can’t focus enough to pin it down.

“Yes,” you agree softly, eyes glazed.

The knife slices through your upper arm next, deep enough to expose muscle beneath, and it has you arching and moaning. Blood wells up rapidly now, slicking your heated skin. Anti has it on his hands, on the blade of the knife. He leans down and bites right over the gash, tongue tormenting the open wound, and when he comes back up there’s blood on his smirking lips too.

“I could cut you open an’ tear your guts out an’ make it feel like bliss.”

You moan. His words sink in, and—don’t. Please don’t, you want to say. Fear floods your gut, but so does arousal, and your face feels all too flushed and warm.

Anti laughs at your reaction. He grips your hair – he’s smearing blood there too, now – and yanks your head back. “But I won’t break ye. Not yet. Yer still useful to me alive.”

The knife slices all the way down from your sternum to your navel, cutting through your shirt. And through the flesh below, just the tip piercing into you and leaving a shallow, angry red line. Anti purrs as he runs the blade over the newly exposed skin, over your hips.

“Master—"

His eyes are dark with a cruel, sadistic lust as he drinks in the sight of you, torn up and blood-covered. His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling until you whimper. “Good puppets get on their knees and serve like the little fuckin’ toys they are,” Anti growls lowly.

He shoves you down, one hand guiding your head and the other holding the knife to your throat. As if you were going to resist; the pain feels like heaven, the gashes left by his knife markings of his ownership. The static in your head is all-consuming.

You lean in, shaky fingers reaching for his jeans, and for the blatant hardness underneath.

“Yes, Master.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mildly dubious consent, rough sex

Anti glitches in out of nowhere, and it takes barely a fraction of a second to tell he’s in a Mood. That thunderous, terrifying intensity–

He’s just finished with murdering someone(s?); the blade of his knife is still slick with their blood, spatters of it on Anti’s hands and up his arms and sprayed across his face. He’s staring you down with a cruel, vicious grin, and you have no idea if that Look is murderous or lustful. (They overlap a lot for Anti.)

Anti presses the knife against your throat until it’s biting in deep enough to split the skin, and spins you round and shoves you face-first up against the wall. He pins you there with the length of his body, and you can feel just how fucking hard he is even through his jeans.

(Horny, then. He murdered someone and got turned on and you happened to be the nearest pretty little puppet for him to shove his dick into.)

He tears your clothes off and doesn’t even give you a chance to prepare. The head of his cock grinds against you, and then he thrusts roughly in and you scream for him.

Anti mutters filth while he fucks you; how hot and tight you are, such a good little puppet. Stop crying, pet, you belong to him and he’s going to use your body however he likes.

And he doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, until he’s filled you up with his cum twice and you’re nothing more than a senseless, begging mess.

The second he removes the knife from your throat, your knees give way and you crumple to the floor.

“Good, puppet,” Anti purrs.

The praise is worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From that one time (on the first thumbnail for Layers of Fear 2) where it looked kinda like Anti wearing eyeliner and everyone was hella into it, lol.

Anti laughs, cruel and amused.

“This really how fuckin’ easy it is?” he gloats. “Just a l'il bit of eyeliner an’ yer all falling over yerselves for me.”

You try to look away - he doesn’t need to call you out like that, damnit - but Anti grips your jaw to keep you in place. Hard enough that his clawed fingerails dig into your skin, bruising, and you wince. He won't  _let_  you look away. 

“Let’s play a little game, puppet,” Anti purrs darkly. “Ye wanna stare at my fuckin’ eyes all day? Then don’t. Look. Away.”

His hand trails from your jaw down to your throat. Squeezing tight enough to make you gasp. “If ye do, it’s game over. Get it?”

You nod helplessly, and Anti smirks.

You have no idea if ‘game over’ just means he’ll stop, or… a permanent game over.

Now that it’s not just an image, now that the intensity of his stare is directed right  _at you_ , it’s so much harder. His black eyes, the demonic green glow to them, the fucking eyeliner only emphasising it even more– he has you utterly pinned with his gaze alone, and you want to squirm and glance away but now you’re not even allowed to do that. No escape. 

His feral grin, showing too many teeth. He's  _laughing_  at you.

So easy to get you flustered, just by staring at you.

“Don’t look away,” he reminds you. Then your breath catches as you feel the cold, sharp edge of a blade press against the outside of your thigh.

So, that’s the game. The threat of the knife, and you can’t even look to see where he’s going with it or what he’s doing.

One had around your throat, the other idly trailing the knife over your stomach, and those eyes, those fucking eyes that you’re going to drown in.

Anti digs the blade in, just enough to shallowly cut into the flesh, and you cry out as you feel your skin split apart for him. He drags the knife down your side and it  _stings_.

“There,” Anti says, cackling at your expression. “Now that yer paying fuckin’ attention…”

The knife drifts lower. Back to your thighs; between your thighs. Forcing you to spread them. He smirks.

“…let’s play for real.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anti corrupts the reader and makes them do something they regret.
> 
> Warnings: manipulation/mind control, murder, violence, gore.

The static in your head is a blessing. But it’s fading; it’s fading, and for once you  _don’t_  want it to. Not this time. You want to drown in it. You want it to block out everything.

Because that’s the better option right now.

The air is thick with the copper tang of blood; you feel like you’re going to choke on it. You can taste it on your lips where it’s spattered all over you, mixed with the salt of your tears. It’s warm. Still so warm; beneath your nails, soaked into the grain of your skin, staining your hands crimson.

Don’t think about it. Oh, god,  _don’t think_.

That glitching, grating laugh of His echoes through the air. “Well done, puppet,” Anti crows, delighted.

There’s a crackle of electricity and the sharp scent of ozone in the air, and then He’s beside you.

He nudges the jaw of the corpse in front of you with one combat boot, tilting its head back. Sightless eyes stare up at the Master they failed. One eye. The other is only an empty socket, bloody and torn.

It popped out so easily once you clawed your nails around it, tearing the nerve free. You remember the  _screams_ —

Your stomach lurches. You’re going to be sick. Don’t think don’t think don’t think.

“I didn’t… want to…” you sob, bile rising in your throat.

“Oh, but you  _did_. You danced so prettily on your strings for me,” Anti purrs. “You barely even needed the persuasion.”

Strings. His fucking strings, that’s—you have to believe that’s what it was, fuck what He says. That’s not  _you_ , you weren’t yourself; He’s the one who corrupts your thoughts with His static, overrides your sanity, hijacks control of your body. It’s  _Him_. It’s always been Him.

 _He_ was the one who put the knife in your hand and infused you with His rage. That’s not—that’s not  _you_.

That can’t be you.

Anti leans in, a feral smile on his face. That inhuman tongue of His flicks out to taste the blood on your cheek, and you flinch away.

“Such a vicious little thing,” he gloats approvingly. “Maybe I’ll even getcha a proper pretty knife of your own.”

“No!  _Please_ , it wasn’t my fault—”

Your breath cuts off abruptly, His clawed hand suddenly around your throat. Powerful. Strong enough He could snap your neck just like this, if He wanted.

“Don’t be fuckin’ tiresome. You humans are always the same. I  _free_  you from your weakness and goddamn ‘morality’ bullshit, an’ I show you what you’re  _really_  capable of, an’ you always get so fuckin’ prissy and upset about it. Just admit you  _enjoyed_  it.”

You clench your eyes shut and shake your head.

“It’s a rush, ain’t it?” Anti goads. Oh, god. He’s close enough you can feel His breath. “Don’t try an’ tell me you don’t  _like_ having blood on your hands. I watched every damn second, I’m  _always_ watching. I saw you play with it as it drained outta each an’ every stab wound  _you_  left.”

“Shut up. Please,  _shut up!_ ”

“Wanna taste it too?”

“No—!”

You’re cut off by Anti’s lips pressing against yours. There’s nothing even remotely affectionate in it; the kiss is harsh, biting, demanding. You’re not sure if you can even call it a kiss.

He tastes like blood.

Maybe  _you’re_  the one who tastes like blood.

You whimper and try to shove Him off, but the attempt does nothing. He doesn’t stop until He’s had his fill, and then for your transgressions he shoves you forward.

You shriek as Anti grabs hold of your hair, yanking it harshly and dragging your head down until your face is only inches away from that of the mutilated corpse below you.

“ _Y͢ou ̸_ d͟i͘ḑ ͜t̷his!̨”

No. No, no,  _no!_

“I’m bein’ real fucking generous with you right now, puppet. You even impressed me. Don’t ruin it now ‘cause you still think you’re any kind of  _human_.” He spits the final word with distaste. “You’re mine. Get it?”

Anti picks up the knife from the ground – not His one, just a mediocre spare He let you toy with. It’s slick with blood, completely coated. He places it back in your hands.

“An’ you’re gonna serve me, whether you like it or not. So you might as well get used to it and enjoy yourself.”

He lets go of your hair, as roughly and abruptly as he had taken hold of it in the first place, and you lurch forward. Your hands raise instinctively to try and catch yourself; they end up bracing against the corpse, sinking  _inside_ through the gaping hole torn wide across their abdomen, into still-warm guts, and this time you do retch.

You stumble back, vision so blurred with tears you can’t even see, and end up at Anti’s feet. He kicks you forward again.

“By the way,” He says, smile vicious and eyes bright with malice, “I forgot to mention.  _This_  is your new roommate. Enjoy the company.”

Anti laughs, and then He’s gone again, leaving you alone in your cell. Or, not quite alone, which is even worse. The silence is deafening, sickening, broken only by your own rasping breaths as you try to choke back the urge to vomit and the steady drip of blood from the mangled body beside you. You throw the knife as hard and as far from you as you can, then curl your knees up to your chest and sob.

The static in your head—the static is the only comfort you have. You can’t face it, you can’t accept it, this is so  _wrong_. It hurts too badly, so much worse even than the times Anti has tortured you.

You don’t want to think. You’d give anything not to have to think.

Don’t think don’t think don’t think.

You sink back into the static and let it consume you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly completely forgot about this one! This is much older - this was the first ever fic I wrote with Anti. Isn't that cute. x3 According to my ramblings on the tumblr post where I originally published this, I started writing it at 3am while sleep-deprived out of my mind during Overnight Watch. So that's fun too.
> 
> I went a lot heavier on the zalgo back then, apparently.
> 
> Warnings: reader-insert torture, of the getting carved up kind (but not to the point of it being life-threatening), violence, mild gore. Implied side of Dark/Reader.

When he touches you – long, claw-like fingers tightening around your throat – it feels like an electric shock. His very presence is like the charged, acrid aftershocks of a lightning strike, and you can feel it like violent static in your head.

“Get off!” you shriek at him. “Dark’s going to be fucking pissed if you touch me.”

He just grins with that manic, unsettling smile and a laugh that sets your teeth on edge.

“Anti, I’m fucking serious!”

“Yeah, well, Dark ain’t here now,  _is he?”_

You shove at him, but Anti’s hardly a pushover. You can’t even shift the demon. And he’s only amused by the attempt, laughing even harder at your efforts.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’ve been spending way too much time around that stuck-up smarmy prick.” Anti’s eyes grow colder, his smile more vicious, more calculating. “You s̱̬̠̞̣͓̦t̠̦̮̦͖̺̪o̠̹͝p̭̞̘̭͠p͖̪̘̥̼̲̳ẹ͖̕d ҉̹̻ͅp͕a̯y͏̟͙̖̳i͏̞̙̹̼̖n̹̲͔̜̙̻g̘̮̣͖͚̯͟ ͉̲̙̻̗͚̫ą͇t͕̜̣͖̰ͅt̸e͙͈̘͕̣̺n͎͔̦̼̞̮͟t̘io͏n to me!”

Your blood turns to ice. Anti is terrifying at the best of times, unpredictable and violent, but when he’s actually got a reason to be pissed off…

It’s not fucking fair at all, but you can’t deny he’s right. You’ve been playing favourites, and now that mistake is going to come back to bite you in the ass.

He must be able to see the fear in your eyes, because he seems viciously pleased at the effect of his words.

“D-don’t…” You take a breath, steadying yourself. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Dark will still have your hide.”

You’re not even convinced of that much. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Dark, sure, but do you even mean anything to him? You just happen to be useful at the moment.  _Would_  he defend you from Anti? Maybe. Just because he doesn’t like anyone else playing with his toys, though, not out of any actual kind of care for you.

Anti laughs, and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Don’t worry,” he says, not reassuring in the least. “I wasn’t going to b̴̰̱̻r̶͕̦͍̦̪͕e̶a̸̱̻̫̭̦̩̤k͚̤̯͇ you. Not yet, at least. Just gonna leave you a little r̼͟e̟̻m̯̤iͅn̤͇̻͝d͔̭̭̹e͉͡r̶̻͕̥̫̟̻͚ .”

You don’t have chance to respond, or even work out what that means. You choke on a gasp as Anti bodily lifts you by your throat and slams you to the ground in one brutally smooth movement. It knocks all the air out of you, leaving your chest heaving and head spinning and mouth gasping open with no sound able to force its way out.

Anti pins you to the ground with a knee on your chest. He kicks your arm out to the side and stamps down on your fingers, pins your hand beneath his boot, laughing as you cry out in pain. He grips your hair and yanks your head to the side,  _hard_ ; it stings enough to bring tears to your eyes. You push against him with your free hand, squirming to try and throw him off balance, get him  _off_  you, but he’s a fucking demon and all you’re doing is flailing uselessly with no leverage and no strength, lungs burning for air as you gasp in ragged breaths.

He has his knife in his other hand, you can see it out of the corner of your eye. No. He’s  _letting_  you see. Revelling in the way your breathing quickens and pulse races, how you struggle even harder to break free.

“Anti,  _don’t,_ ” you try to insist, but your voice cracks on the plea.

He grins maliciously. “ B̘͓̩͕̦ͅe̕t̵̝͕̫̫̹̟̞t͜e̶͕͖̲̟̯̙r̰̪͚̖͉ͅ. I like it when you say m҉͎͔̥̗͎͉y̻̲̲͢ name.”

You open your mouth to try again – to plead, to threaten him with retribution from Dark, maybe – but the only sound that comes out is a scream.

The metal blade tears through the flesh of your arm; it’s the surprise more than the pain that makes you cry out like that. Because it’s not deep; not as deep as it could be, not as deep as you were expecting, but god it still hurts.

The knife isn’t even  _sharp_ , that would be too easy. Instead the jagged edge bites into your flesh and  _rips_  it.

The pain of it makes you jerk against Anti’s hold. He’s paying more attention to the knife now, and you actually manage to shift your fingers out just a little from beneath his boot. Emboldened, you attempt to shove him off again, but of course that’s a stupid move.

“Stop  ҉͖͉͖̜͙s̥͎q͔̩͈͘ͅu̗ͅi̢r̺͉͙̙͇̜ṃ̲i̝n͉̱̗̟g̨̟̝̙̹!” Anti hisses. He tightens his grip on your hair and slams your head into the ground, and your vision bursts into stars. Head spinning, you can only moan helplessly as Anti digs the knife into your flesh again.

Your arm feels like it’s on fire. He’s concentrating it there; at first the cuts he leaves seem random, but as he  _keeps fucking going_  you realise he’s carving letters all the way across your forearm.

When he’s finished he sits back at cackles, looking delighted with his handiwork. He takes his boot off your hand, and you immediately clutch your arm to your chest with a wail, as if that will stop the pain. The blood feels –  _looks –_  like it’s pouring from the wounds, and it makes your stomach churn.

You don’t want to know, but at the same time how could you not look? You can just about make out the outline edges of torn skin beneath all the slick red, forming a jagged, misshapen imitation of writing. It spells out ** _PUPPET_**.

You seethe, torn between nausea and terror, pain and hysteria and rage. “I am  _not_  a—!”

He cuts your protest short with a knife against your throat, digging in deep against your jugular. The blade is already warm with your own blood, and you can’t stop the quiet whimper that bursts from your lips.

Anti cackles, as if your protest is the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. “What, not a puppet?” He digs the knife in harder, and you flinch. But there’s nowhere for you to go to get away from it. “Get real, doll. You’ve had our strings w̨̼̖̖̟̖̣̫r͖͈͙̟̗͝a͡p̬̞͉̼̩p̻͕͖e͜d̫͉̤͙̠̣ͅ ̹̣̻̲͙̲a̞̠̠͖̭̠̣r̯͓͢o͈u̝̜͎n͍̕d̪̣͙ ̯͡y̗̯o͕͍̙̯̟͖̝ṷ̵̜͙̺̹r̼̞̳͔ ̼ͅn͓̠͔ec̤̥̰k̲̟̞̠̬̯ for years.”

You’re close to hyperventilating. Thank fuck the knife isn’t that sharp, otherwise it would have absolutely broken the skin and sunk deep into your arteries by now. But you know from very recent experience that all Anti has to do is drag the blade ever so slightly and it will  _rip you open_.

If he slits your throat like this, you’re dead. He said he wasn’t going to kill you, but you wouldn’t put it past him to forget that little detail.

“Anti…” you plead brokenly.

“Go on and tell me I’m right,” he cajoles. He eases up some of the pressure, until the knife is only just biting into you. And then he pulls it across, splitting the top layers of skin in a mirror image of the slit across his own throat, in a mockery of the strings he claims are around yours.

You choke back a little sob. It stings, but the pain isn’t that bad. It’s the fear, knowing how easily he could murder you, how he’s just  _toying_  with you.

“You’re right!” you gasp. “You’re right, okay?

“Tell me w̡͓͉̣̜ha̡͍͓t͓̖̜̝͉̼͓͡ ̶̹̠̼̻ͅy̮̥̝ơu̟͈̼̳͓͟ͅ ̛͓̤͙a̴̺̰ͅre҉̻̲ .”

You clench your eyes shut. You don’t want to see his luminescent green eyes as they bore into you, drinking in your fear, don’t want to see his terrifying, manic grin.

“…a puppet. Your puppet.”

Anti purrs, and the knife is finally removed. Your own blood is running down your neck in a steady trickle now, but at least he didn’t cut deeply enough to really fuck you up. No. Just enough to fuck with your head instead.

“That’s more like it.”

A second later the knife cuts into your shoulder, and you jerk away. No. Oh, fuck no, not more. That’s not  _fair_ , you said exactly what he wanted! But Anti still pins you down and laughs with delirious glee as he starts carving more letters into you, across your shoulder and chest this time.

Your head is spinning and you feel sick, like you’re going to gag on your own choked-back, pained sobs. There’s nothing you can do, nothing, nothing,  _nothing_. You can only grit your teeth and wait for it to be over.

The wait is torture, both metaphorically and fucking literally. There are tears streaking your face by the time he’s done, and you’re trembling all over. Meanwhile, Anti is practically glitching out with how damn gleeful he is.

Anti purrs as he admires his own handiwork, runs his fingers through the blood and digs his nails into the open wounds just to hear you scream.

He’s enjoying this. He’s enjoying it way too much, you can tell. His eyes linger hungrily over the wounds he’s left on you, his fingers caressing the knife as he toys with it.

He takes a fistful of your hair again and yanks your head back, and this time you can only moan weakly. Anti lunges down, and you shriek as he sinks his teeth into your throat, right over the slash across your neck. It makes you jolt; the pain of it feels like an electric shock, static bursting in your head.

The way he laughs as he sits up again sends horrified shivers down your spine. There’s bloodstains on his lips –  _your_  blood – and your stomach churns to see it. He looks right at you as he licks the blood off, and it makes your skin crawl.

“You’re  _sick,_ you—” you begin, before cutting yourself off. You don’t know how you want to finish that sentence, and insulting Anti is probably not a great idea in this situation. He’ll only make you pay for it.

“Oh?” he says, grinning far too widely. He runs the point of the knife down your cheek, smearing blood amongst your tears. “This is ̷̼̪n̳̗͚͎̙͚ͅo̪͕͞t͠h̝ị̥̦̬̲n̨͍̰͖̹̮̙̳g . You should see what happens to the others who cross me.”

It makes ice settle in the pit of your stomach to even think of it.

He finally stands up and steps away from you, and you breathe a shuddering sigh of relief. Your head is aching and spinning too much for you to even think about getting up, but you manage to prop yourself up onto the elbow of your uninjured arm. Even doing that makes you feel queasy, but it’s better than being feeling completely vulnerable laid out on the floor.

The movement makes you wince, pulling at the torn skin of your shoulder and chest. You look down, but you can’t work out what the new letters say beneath all the blood. Oh, god. There… there’s a lot of blood.

Anti looms over you, smirking. “Huh. I see why he likes you. You’re kinda pretty when you’re all messed up.”

You glower at him. “Shut the  _fuck_  up.”

Anti laughs. “Don’t worry, your precious Darky-boy will be here soon enough. And as much as I’d love to see his expression when he finds you like this, I got other shit to get to. People to murder, puppets to control, ya know.”

“Oh, I know. More like you’re a chicken-shit who’s running away rather than have to face Dark,” you bite back.

His expression turns to ice in an instant, and you immediately regret the words. He punches you with enough force to send you  _flying_  and you slam painfully into the wall behind you; Anti follows straight after, and he kicks you in the chest to force you onto your back again. Your arm is splayed out to the side, and you try to draw it back it – to curl up into yourself, make yourself as small as possible to give him less targets – but Anti stamps down on your wrist, and then plunges the knife through the palm of your hand.

You scream, the sound breaking into a sob as he uses his other boot to kick you firmly in the side.

“You know, I was gonna be  _nice_ ,” Anti growls. “Was gonna make you an offer. Once Dark is finished with you, once he’s left you in shattered pieces just b̺̳͈͎̣e͔̬g͚͓̹̯̬̳̣g͓͎͍i̻̟n̷͍̭̻̗g̗̼͓ for death, I woulda taken mercy and given you a quicker death than he ever would. Not painless, mind, but I’d end it for ya sooner rather than later. Now…” He grasps your jaw in a grip tight enough to bruise, claws digging jagged lines into the skin. “I’m gonna have  _fun_  making you s̳̱̬̺̩c̯̣̼̠̝͢r̟͍̪͞e͟a͓͇m͓̙̳͇͓͈̯ .”

You futilely attempt to squirm out of his grip, but he just squeezes all the harder. He’s a fucking demon, his strength is immense. He could probably shatter your jaw like this if he wanted to. You give a quiet whimper and eventually fall still.

He shoots you a vicious, hateful grin as he lets you go and shoves you back against the floor. He yanks the knife out of your hand and slowly, purposefully, licks your blood from the blade. You shudder in silent disgust, but don’t dare say a word.

“Until next time then, ̡̥̥̟͇͖̗̝p͏͈̫͙̻͍͈u̫̱͚̩̰p̵͍̼̻͖p̛e͔͙t̻̰̫̼̝.” The way he says it, you know you’re not going to be walking away from ‘next time’ in one piece.

You don’t even see him leave; you’re too busy curling up into a ball and clutching your injured hand into the fabric of your top, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. You feel the crackle of electricity, the smell of ozone. The lights flicker, and then you can’t sense him there anymore.

Shakily, you force yourself to your knees, crawling across the floor. You need… bandages, something. There’s too many wounds, none of them deathly serious except for maybe your hand, but the amount of blood is alarming. It’s soaked into your clothes, it’s all over the floor, and all you want to do is start crying again. You can feel your face beginning to swell rapidly as well, with what promises to be a monumental black eye where he punched you.

Bathroom. There’s a first aid kit in there. Probably not good enough to deal with this… you should really get a better one, stock up on the heavy-duty shit, if you’re going to have any involvement with either of those two fucking demons.

You choke on a hysterical laugh. Yeah, right. No amount of bandages are ever gonna save you now. Dark  _and_  Anti… god, you’re fucked.

You crudely bandage your hand as best you can; that’s going to need a lot more attention, but it’ll hold for the time being while you deal with your arm and neck and shoulder.

Speaking of—you’re morbidly curious. You gingerly pat a dampened towel over the letters he’s left carved beneath your collarbone, wiping away the worst of the blood. Thankfully, the bleeding is only sluggish now; more immediately oozes from the wound as you wipe it clean, but not as terrifyingly fast as after the initial cuts.

 ** _ALWAYS HERE_** , it says.

You cover your mouth with your hand, heart in your throat. Fuck.  _Fuck_. You  _believe_ those words and it kills you; he’s got you in his sights now, and he’ll always be there. Always watching.

Great. Another one.

You’re not sure if you’re laughing or crying, but whatever it is, you can’t stop. You’re shaking on the bathroom floor, covered in your own blood and with Anti’s words vivid gashes against your skin, and that’s exactly how Dark finds you when he arrives, far too late to undo the damage.

But from the lack of surprise, the mix of annoyance and appreciation with which he regards the mess you’re in, you wonder if he would have stepped in at all.


End file.
